


Cherry

by formalizing



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Established Relationship, Food Porn, M/M, Manhandling, No Nothing Sexual Happens to the Pie, Pie, Ruining Clothing, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-18
Updated: 2009-06-18
Packaged: 2018-05-08 08:39:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5490848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/formalizing/pseuds/formalizing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean <i>really</i> likes pie, okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherry

When Sam walks into the motel room, a case of beer and greasy bag full of what he supposes could loosely be called 'dinner' in hand, he expects Dean to be happy. Dean is always happy to see food, and even happier to see food _and_ beer. What he doesn't expect is to walk in on Dean sitting at the edge of the bed, close to the television as he can get, watching with what Sam can only describe as a rapturous look on his face. He stops, frozen in the doorway, and stares for a moment. His eyes take in the way Dean's hand is gripping the remote control tight enough to cut off circulation to his fingers, lips parted and looking absolutely dazed.

"Porn again? Seriously, Dean, that stuff costs money."

Dean seems to finally realize Sam's presence at the sound of his voice. His head snaps sharply to the side, glassy eyes fixating on Sam's. Sam actually takes a small step back at the look in them. They're blown wide, only a thin ring of color remaining along the pupil. He looks _hungry_.

"It's a marathon," Dean says, his voice rough and low. "It's a pie _marathon_."

Sam takes a second to process what his brother's saying. That's the point at which he realizes there's no moaning coming from the television, no gasping women begging for all sorts of filthy things. What there is, is a cheerful-sounding woman carefully explaining the need for an egg wash on the top crust to encourage browning and to give a glossy finish.

He left Dean alone with cable television. And the Food Network is showing a pie marathon.

His back hits the door—hard—before Sam even has a chance to fully comprehend what's going on. The beer is knocked from his hand and hits the floor with a loud thump, and he takes a second to be glad he got cans instead of bottles. Dean doesn't seem to notice, his mouth latching onto Sam's neck as his hands hold him firmly against the door.

"Want to fuck you," he growls. Teeth bite at his skin and Dean's cheek nudges at his jaw, tilting Sam's head sideways to further expose his throat. Sam laughs, the sound sounding strained as he chokes it out around where his throat has suddenly gone dry with the rough grip of Dean's hands on his hips, the way he's leaving marks everywhere he touches.

"You don't want to fuck me, Dean. Look, I have food."

One of Dean's hands leaves his hip, shoots out to grab at the paper bag that Sam is clutching like a lifeline. He stops sucking at Sam's throat and lifts his head slowly to look him in the eye. He's still close enough that Sam's lips move with his when he speaks.

"If there is pie in that bag, I will stop right now," he says, staring intensely into Sam's eyes. Eventually, Sam shakes his head, wanting to look away from Dean's crazed eyes, but finding himself unable to. Dean's fingers pry the bag from Sam's hand and drop it on the floor. "Then it can wait."

Sam grunts as Dean pulls him away from the door with both hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him over to the nearest bed and pushing him down on it. He hasn't even caught his breath when Dean pushes him further up the mattress by his hips and kneels between his thighs, tugging impatiently on the hem of Sam's shirt to get it up and over his head. Sam doesn't help, but he doesn't stop him, either.

"M'gonna suck you until you don't remember your own name," Dean growls into his ear, hands roughly yanking open the front of Sam's jeans. The sharp, fast sound of the zipper flying open under the rough treatment means it's probably ruined. Sam can't bring himself to care.

When Dean's hand curls around his cock, Sam's hips lift off the bed. He hadn't noticed just how much this was turning him on until Dean's cool fingers touched him. He's already hard, gasping as Dean grins down at him, grips him tighter.

The woman is taking the finished pie out of the oven now, happily cooing over the color of the crust and the sweet smell rising up from the molten filling inside. It's cherry, if the vivid red color is any indication. Sam's hand gropes along the bed until he finds the remote Dean abandoned earlier. He hits the power button and Dean's head swivels around to look at the empty, black screen. Sam tosses the remote somewhere in the direction of the bathroom, hears it hit the carpeted floor.

"If you even _think_ of turning that T.V. back on," he mutters, reaching up and grabbing Dean's jaw, turning him back to face him. "I will leave you with the worst case of blue balls imaginable."

"But--"

"No, Dean. This, right here? It's screwed up enough without Betty Crocker in the background providing the soundtrack."

Dean looks like he's going to protest some more, but Sam rolls his hips, thrusting into the loose hold Dean still has on his dick. He groans, does it again. Dean forgets all about the television after that.

Just before Dean's hot, wet lips close around him, fully intending to make good on his promise, Sam makes a mental note to check the TV Guide. He hopes the pie marathon is running for a good, long time.


End file.
